Western Short StoryBrushback from Death's DoorTom Sheehan

Western Short Story

“Hey.
Mum,” yelled 7-year old Ronnie Coppersmith, “there’s another
rider comin’ our way. Never seen him before. Not one time.”

Adelle
Coppersmith, widowed less than a year, a 27-year old beauty of a
woman in anybody’s sight, muttered, “Won’t they ever stop and
let me catch my breath, Ronald not gone a full year yet, and they
keep pushing my way. A man’s got a right to want but show some
respect. I hope it’s not that loud-mouth braggart, Stash Winslow. I
think he’d drive a woman crazy quicker than she could spit.”

The
rider was not Stash Winslow, for this rider halted a good way off, a
sign of respect to a widowed woman, waved at the mother and son, and
yelled very clearly, “Hello the house. Hello Adelle Coppersmith and
son Ronnie. I am Stride Walkins, once a corporal with your husband in
the Great War. I just came from town and heard some stories about you
getting the bull’s rush from men in town and one in particular.”

“You’re
right and you’re welcome, and Ronald spoke about you like you were
his older brother. I swear, you’re most welcome. Come and sit with
us.” She pushed her son towards him, “Go lead his horse in
Ronnie. Make sure he has water.”

She
fluffed her hair for a moment, and stopped quickly, proper senses
grasping her.

She
saw him, as he closed in on them, for what he was; an upright,
honest, respectable and utterly handsome man in his late thirties,
early forties. And the scar she had heard about from her husband, sat
across a piece of his jaw, unadorned by beard, like it was his own
standard from the war. His eyes were appealing in the obverse of war
that likely rode with him as company, for they carried a piece of the
sky of a pleasant day right to the midst of both orbs, blue as blue
ought to be when man meets a woman or the woman meets a man.

“Have
you eaten yet today?” she said, gesturing to an outdoor table
beside the door of a small, comfortable-looking ranch house. She saw
him inhale, as if he recognized a home smell in the air and nodded in
a concerted self-agreement.

“Yes,
Ma’am,” he replied. “I had egg and rabbit on the trail, and
lucky on both counts. And I’ll be happy with a cup of coffee and
you tell me your side of things about what I heard in town. Like you
getting the rush from townsmen not wanting you to get stale at this
man and woman stuff that beats at us all the time. And one of them
bigmouths saying you were getting ready to claim him as yours, a
fellow name Stash Winslow, and I’d sooner believe you and this
account than him.”

“Not
in a hundred years would it be him,” she exclaimed, “not for me
and not for Ronnie, you can bet your wages on that,” and looked
embarrassed as she realized it appeared he had no wages coming his
way whatsoever.

“Well,
there’s no time like now for taking care of problems. Ron told me
to make sure I dropped in here once in a while and square away
anything not going the right way. I’m sorry it took
me so long getting here, but I was on a cattle drive and didn’t
hear about him dying until another comrade from our outfit looked me
up. He knew how close Ron and I were and he made a point of finding
me. Takes a comrade to make the good choices in such matters.”

“Thank
the good Lord for comrades, though not for the wars that draw them
together.” Her voice was filled with conviction, and Stride Walkins
knew he had met a special woman, the kind Ronald would choose to
spend his life with, if other matters didn’t interfere.

“How
did he die, Ma’am? Do you know? Anybody know?”

“Only
that he was shot from behind, in ambush, if you want my opinion, like
from behind a rock or a tree where a face couldn’t be seen, and who
knows what for?”

Stride
Walkins, without a doubt, could figure that out for himself.

He
left before darkness came down, but only went out of sight of the
cabin, dropped a bedroll and a canvas sheet on a comfortable spot,
and set up his watch, at least for this night.

Before
dawn, satisfied no unwanted cusses had come near the widow, he headed
off to town, to check on the inhospitable therein, knowing Stash
Winslow would not be difficult to find, or hear, from what he had
heard of him.

It
was easy as getting an ace when you don’t need it in a card game.
At the bar, facing the crowd, and the swinging saloon doors when
another customer entered, a lone man held sway, as if the space he
was in and those on either side of him were especially reserved for
him and what company he might invite to share drinks with him. His
hat brim was curled Cossack-like on one brim and was slipped back on
his head the way most men of the West would not wear their Stetsons,
making a statement about the crowned-head wearing it.

Stride
Walkins measured him in quick pronouncement, certain of his
determination, the man’s character leaping at him like the lily
pond frog.

“Hey,
stranger, step up here and get yourself a drink, loosen up, ‘cause
you look a might tight around your gizzard.” He laughed at his own
attempt at humor, the laugh breaking down any bit of resistance, his
place still secure in the face of an unknown character, standing at
his bar, so far ignoring his welcome, a man in place extending a
hand.

The
response clamped down on Stash Winslow like hammers, like shots from
the hip, like bellows from the heavens above; “I choose my own
company, man with big mouth, my own space, and don’t like
interruptions at any time.” The words came like a repeating rifle,
one after the other, their intent not the least evasive.

“Who
the Hell do you think you are, wise mouth, coming in here like you
own this place?”

Stride
Walkins said, “Like you think you own it? Every man in this saloon
knows you don’t own it, only stand here as if you really did own
it. What’s it going to take to wake you up? Straighten you out?”

“I
ought to draw on you right now and get it over with,” Stash
retorted, but did not go for his gun as Stride Walkins flipped a coin
on the bar top and said to the barkeep, “Give the man a drink on
me, and better make it a stiff one, ’cause he needs some stiffening
from inside out.”

He
started for the door, his eyes on the gathering, knowing they’d
tell him with movement alone what Stash Winslow was up to. When he
reached the door, he spun about and said, “And I have a piece of
advice for you, Winslow; stay away from Ron Coppersmith’s widow.
Ron was my comrade and I made promises to him like he made promises
to me. I’d like nothing better than to pay back an old debt, an old
promise.”

He
slowly rode out of town, went directly where Adelle told him Ron
Coppersmith had been found after being shot in the back, determined
what was the most likely spot the back-shooter had fired from. It was
a rock large enough to hide both man and horse when dismounted.

His
following study of the lay of the land provided several points where
a prone shooter could lay undetected in wait.

Not
one word would he tell Adelle, until it was over. Early in the
morning he found where the back shooter had hobbled his horse for the
murder.

He
knew it wasn’t a game he was playing, but it certainly felt like
it.

When
he went off to sleep, he imagined he heard a bell ring.

Morning
brought birds, a song or two, some flights in quick circles. The sun
popped over the horizon and began its own flight toward mid-day
before it would head for the far west, and the sound of horse hooves
came down the road from town.

It
was apparent that a lone rider was going to visit Adelle or had
intentions to exact demands for some personal slight. The guess,
again, was easy for Stride Walkins, man of the world, student of
behaviors between cowboys, as Stash Winslow positioned his horse in a
gulley and returned to set up his rifle at the large rock.

He
scrunched down in his selected place, low, at ground level, the huge
rock and nearby surroundings in full view. No sounds came from the
rider’s hobbled horse, no activity at the rock, but at mid-morning
more hoof beats came from the town road. A rider made his way onto
the short stretch of road to the Coppersmith home.

Stash
Wilson set his rifle site in place and would have blown the rider off
his horse, a rider that Walkins did not recognize, until expert rifle
shot Stride Walkins knocked the rifle right out of his hands, the hit
rifle firing harmlessly into the air.

“Hold
on there, cowboy, but that there gent behind that rock was about to
shoot you in the back, the way I’m sure he got rid of Ron
Coppersmith, my army buddy, whose widow’s been drawing bees all
around here.”

“Not
me, Mister,” said the new rider. “I’m her brother, Kermit,
Kermit Stanley, and you’re the gent who stood him up for what he is
in the saloon last night. I saw that whole damned good shooting match
with no guns firing. Was a damned show of shows. My compliments, and
you were Ron’s comrade to boot.”

Stash
Winslow, on the word of two eyewitnesses, was convicted of a murder
neither of the two eyewitnesses had seen, neither one of them.

And
Kermit Stanley had the last say in matters, telling Stride Walkins he
ought to stick around town for a damned good while, swinging the odds
in his sister’s favor.